


Everybody Hurts Sometimes

by FlyAway_33



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Chest infection, Concussions, Food Poisoning, Gen, Homophobia, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pneumonia, Seizures, Sick Character, Violence, Vomiting, Whump, hurt Roger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyAway_33/pseuds/FlyAway_33
Summary: A series of one shots of Roger Taylor whump.1. Concussion pt. 12. Concussion pt. 23. Anxiety Attack4. Chest Infection5. Food Poisoning6. Beaten pt. 17. Beaten pt. 2





	1. Concussion pt. 1

“QUEEN DRUMMER INVOLVED IN ACCIDENT AT CONCERT”  
The headline glared up at Freddie and Brian from the nearby news stand as they reached for the drinks they were retrieving from an old battered vending machine in a florescent lit hallway. Less than 12 hours after the accident and the press was already reporting, speculating, circling like vultures. Freddie just sighed and rolled his eyes in annoyance as he headed back to the room at the end of the hallway, Brian following forlornly. They never thought they would be in this situation, scared shitless and just waiting for their best friend, the heartbeat of Queen to wake up.  
It had been some of the most stressful few hours of their lives ever since they’d heard a muffled shout from backstage as Brian cut off his guitar chord. The three of them still on the dark stage could tell something was wrong when Roger’s ending drum cue never came, Roger who never missed a beat. The frantic shouts from behind the riser that they could hear even over the roar of the crowd only confirmed their concerns. Something was very wrong.  
Brian was the first to bolt backstage being the closest, with Freddie and Deaky hot on his heels. All three of them felt their hearts drop at the sight before them as they rounded the back of the riser. Roger was laying sprawled out on the floor, clearly unconscious as Crystal, his assistant was doubled over his head, holding it still and keeping his neck straight as he shouted for help.  
“Rog! Stay with me, mate!” He shouted.  
Roger’s eyes fluttered opened but were unfocused and confused. He saw bright stars floating around in his darkened vision and the dim lights of backstage blossomed before his eyes. His head felt heavy as he tried to sit up and he immediately collapsed back into Crystal’s hands, a massive, heavy pain overtaking his head and neck. Blood was visible coloring his lips as they parted in a sigh and even more was visible on Crystal’s hands from where he was holding Roger’s head. Suddenly, Roger’s body convulsed and he was vomiting. Crystal shouted in panic and braced Roger’s neck with his arms. “Someone fucking help me!” He yelled.  
Brian was the first to register what was happening and rushed to aid Crystal in turning Roger onto his side whilst keeping his spine stable. Thank God they knew some first aid.  
“Roger,” Brian knelt in front of him, “Roger can you hear me?” But the drummer’s eyes didn’t search, and instead fluttered closed once more. “Fucking hell, Rog!” Brian cried in distress, looking wildly around at Freddie and Deaky as the backstage medics finally swarmed, bumping Brian and Crystal both out of the huddle. They had Roger strapped to a backboard in seconds and whisked him away before the bandmates could even register what was happening.  
“Bloody hell…” Deaky gasped, running a hand through his hair. “What just happened?”  
Crystal stood up, holding his shaking, bloody hands in front of him, staring at them in shock. “He fell off the drum riser. Fucking Shag moved his stool when he was up— I don’t know what he was thinking. He hit his head on that monitor there. That’s a six foot drop. I don’t know what the hell—“ he was rambling, his mind racing with what he’d just witnessed, knowing it was bad. Really bad.  
“Fuck!” Freddie spat. “Well let’s go then! He needs us there with him!”  
“Come on.” Peter, Freddie’s assistant stepped forward, brandishing a set of car keys. “Come on, the lot of you.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door, and the four flustered men scrambled after him. Every heart full of terror, every mind wondering what the outcome of this could be.

Roger could hear muffled voices that made it sound like he was underwater, overlaid with a loud ringing in his ears. His head swam as he tried to get his bearings and he felt the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life pressing down on his head. It felt like there was a boulder rolling around in his skull as he tried to move. He could taste a strong salty, metallic taste in his mouth which he recognized as blood and he groaned loudly as he tried to regain feeling in his hands, feeling stiff bedsheets beneath him. He couldn’t for the life of him remember where he was or how he’d gotten there, and tried to open his eyes but the bright light of wherever he was assaulted him. His eyes squeezed shut even tighter to prevent his already throbbing headache from worsening.  
“Roger?” he heard a muffled voice ask. He knew that voice but his head swam too much to place it. He felt a warm hand grasp his and give it a squeeze. “Rog, come on, mate, wake up.” The voice was slowly becoming clearer and it was thick with emotion, but the ringing in his ears was still too prominent to allow him to appreciate it. “It’s John, Rog, come on now. That’s it.”  
Roger eased his eyes open slowly as John encouraged him, squinting at the light that only made his headache intensify. “Glasses,” he croaked up at the blur that must’ve been the bassist.  
“Oh! Right here.” John pulled a pair of Roger’s prescription sunglasses from his pocket and gently placed them on his friend’s nose. He had grabbed them from the floor backstage on the way out of the door immediately after the fall and was now extremely glad that he had.  
Roger relaxed his eyes ever so slightly as the shade and correction to his vision eased just a little bit of the pain. “Thanks.” He sighed, blinking cautiously. They helped improve the blur a little bit, but now the room spun and he couldn’t quite pinpoint where John actually was, as there were almost two of him.  
“Shall I fetch a doctor?” John asked nervously.  
“No— Am I in a hospital? What happened?” Roger glanced around the room but it felt like he was on a tilt a whirl as he tried to look around. He couldn’t get his bearings. “Ah fuck.” He gasped, curling onto his side. John grabbed a bowl and held it under Roger’s chin as he became sick.  
John was startled by how bad his friend looked. He was so pale, shaking, and had dark circles under his eyes. John had never seen him in such a state. “Shit, okay mate I’ll be right back, sit tight.” John put the bowl down when Roger finished, spun on his heel before he could respond and hurried out of the room, reappearing moments later with Brian, Freddie, and an older man in a white lab coat in tail.  
“Rog thank God— we’ve been worried sick!” Brian exclaimed as he rushed to his bedside. Freddie stayed back nervously, watching, observing, and wringing his hands.  
“Mr. Taylor. Do you know where you are?” The man who must’ve been the doctor approached and glanced at the monitor and IV bag. He looked to be in his late fifties or sixties with his silver hair and half-moon spectacles.  
“I guess a hospital. Can someone explain to me what the hell is going on?”  
“What is the last thing you remember?”  
“Uhh, I was drumming. The concert. It goes blank after Champions.”  
“You had a serious fall at the end of the concert and hit your head, son. You have a serious concussion and a cerebral contusion— bruising on your brain tissue, but we’ve been monitoring it closely. We stapled the back of your head where it was lacerated from the fall. You’ll probably be very sore in your head, neck, and back for a while, and you’ll certainly need to take some precautions until you’re healed. A concussion is a traumatic brain injury and needs to be treated as such to heal correctly.”  
“How did I fall?”  
“Er, we’ll let Crystal explain that one…” Deaky began with a chuckle, returning to his bedside. “He’ll be back at some point, he and Peter went to get cleaned up and get us some clothes and such.”  
“I feel like absolute hell.” Roger whimpered, just wanting to sink into the bed as his head pounded. “I’ll be alright though, right?”  
“Well, Mr. Taylor, we need to do a neurological exam and you need another CT to check on the contusion. We need to make sure it hasn’t gotten worse.” The doctor moved to his bedside and took his vitals. He scribbled them down on the chart along with some notes and pulled out a pen light. “Sit up, son. And you’ll need to take off your glasses.”  
John and Brian rushed to his aid and pulled him into a sitting position. He groaned loudly and doubled over in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as his head pounded so hard he didn’t know how he was still conscious. “Gimme a sec, doc.” He grunted out in pain. Minutes passed before he finally straightened up and took his sunglasses off.  
The doctor shone his penlight into each of Roger’s eyes and scribbled something else down on the chart. Roger’s vision was too blurry to see what it was. “Alright, son, I want you to hold your right arm out like this and bring your pointer finger to the tip of your nose.”  
The doctor demonstrated and Roger copied, only his finger touched his right cheek. “Fuck,” he hissed, moving his finger to the correct place.  
“Okay, show me with your left.”  
He tried, but this time overshot and practically punched himself in the face. “What’s wrong with me?” His voice was barely above a whimper, so small and thin. The boys all flinched at the panic in their bandmate’s tone. Roger could be quite a baby when it came to getting his way but he never ever showed an ounce of pain when it came to getting hurt. He rarely complained when his drumming tore up his hands or when he had to play through an illness. Nothing could stop Roger from playing. He was truly the heart of the band and no one liked to see him in such a vulnerable position.  
“Your concussion is quite severe,” was all the doctor offered in terms of information. He finished up the exam and told them that he would be back in a few hours to check in, but for now that Roger needed to remain in bed. They could all tell that the results of the exam weren’t ideal based on the doctor’s tone.  
“Well, mate,” Brian began, patting Roger’s shoulder as he settled back into bed. “We’re going to head out and change out of these damn costumes. We’ll be back sometime later.”  
Roger gave him a weak smile as he slowly laid back down but he was shaken and terrified inside. The doctor hadn’t told him much he didn’t already know and he was scared of what recovery might look like. He wanted to be back on the road playing huge venues with his best friends but inside he felt that idea was in peril. Though his recall was affected a bit from the fall he was wracking his brain for anything he had learned in his biology degree about the brain. He knew TBI’s could be very serious and was wondering if his entire drumming career was in peril due to his sloppy motor skills.  
Brian and John walked out with smiles and encouraging waves, but Freddie stayed behind, closing the door as the other bandmates left. He then turned half the lights off to make it easier on Rog’s eyes and turned toward the bed, approaching his best friend. “Roger, I know you’re scared.” Freddie stated, his eyes boring into Roger’s.  
At his words Roger felt hot tears well up in his eyes and immediately spill over. Before he could register his own emotions he was sobbing into his hands and shaking like a leaf. This strong surge of emotion scared him even more and he felt as though he was losing control. He was devastated mulling over the possibilities of what could come from this. How long would he be unable to play? Would they need to cancel the rest of the tour? Would they be able to make another album? Would he ever heal completely? All of these questions swirled around in his mind, overwhelming him to the point where he could not get a grip on reality. Anxiety swelled in his chest and he felt as though he couldn’t breathe as he felt his world spiral out of control.  
“Come on now, Rog, you’re alright.” Freddie said in a low voice and perched on the bed putting an arm around his shoulders. “Breathe with me. We don’t need you to be sedated.”  
Roger took a gasping breath and wiped furiously at his tears. This wasn’t like him and he knew it, he had to control himself. He then turned to Freddie and threw his arms around his best friend in a tight, desperate bear hug. Freddie could feel the fear and desperation behind the action and held onto his friend tight in solidarity, trying his best to ground him, make him feel secure and wordlessly convey the message that he was going to be there through it all.  
“I am scared, Fred.” Roger hiccuped over Freddie’s shoulder. “I’m really fucking scared.”


	2. Concussion pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band returns to London after the accident

The array of tests done on Roger yielded the results he feared. His doctor told him they were going to treat it like a sports injury and that he would need to stop drumming altogether for the time being. The tour was off and he was devastated. Freddie tried to console him by reminding him that they were only missing a few dates, that none of those dates were sold out shows anyway, but Roger couldn’t help but be upset. Being a rockstar was his dream, his job, and the fact that an injury was keeping him from it was dreadful. Of course when his assistant, Crystal, informed him that it was a roadie who moved his stool, causing him to fall off the riser, that roadie was fired on the spot, and Crystal took on his old responsibilities as Roger’s roadie.  
Roger was discharged from the hospital two days later with his medical file and a plane ticket home, along with instructions to have another neurological exam in two weeks. None of this was what he planned for, and he was miserable. He couldn't drum, exercise, read, watch TV, or even drive because he needed to avoid straining his eyes. He felt completely and utterly useless.  
The plane ride home to London was torture for Roger who already hated flying to begin with. He was in so much pain and it was nearly unbearable as it felt like his head was in a vice grip and like someone had gone at his back with a sledgehammer, sore all over from the fall. He was dizzy and emotional as well, and there were still several hours left of the plane ride. After the whirlwind of the past few days he just wanted to be home in his own bed. Angry that he couldn’t play, he just wanted to sleep.  
Of course flying with a severe concussion and cerebral contusion was not a fun thing to do at all. Flying always caused him headaches anyway and his condition only made him feel like he was in Hell.  
“Bloody hell, Rog” Brian exclaimed as he held a doggie bag open for his bandmate to relieve his motion sickness into for the third time. “How many times is this going to happen?”  
“Fuck off, Bri,” Roger grumbled as he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “But thanks for that,” he mumbled gesturing to the bag Brian was sealing so that it could be disposed. “My brain is attacking me, so I don’t know. Does that answer your question?” He reached for his half-full bottle of water and downed it in one go, bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t take any over the counter pain relievers for his pounding head, as the doctors told him they would thin his blood and put him at risk for a bleed.  
Freddie still shared a flat with Rog, so when they finally did arrive at Heathrow airport, Brian and John split their separate ways and Freddie ushered Roger into an awaiting car as Phoebe and Crystal dealt with their luggage. He looked pitifully at his friend who had curled up on the back seat of the town car. “It’s alright, Rog,” Freddie comforted, “we’ll be home soon” but he received no answer.  
As they entered the flat, Roger didn’t even want to look at the set of practice drum pads he kept in the corner of their small living room. He made a beeline for his room and ignored the record player in the corner as he immediately drew his blackout curtains, blocking out the rare London sunlight and plunging his room into the darkness he had been seeking to wallow in since he woke up from his fall. He didn’t want to even think about music right now as it wouldn’t make him feel better until he could play it himself. Without a second thought to Freddie or their assistants, he collapsed onto his bed and fell into a long awaited, deep sleep. 

The band took a day to get used to the time zone, mostly sleeping the whole day, not that they had regular sleep schedules to begin with, however. The following evening Brian and Deaky stopped by Freddie and Roger’s flat after supper, already missing their brothers and still concerned for Roger’s health as well as his mental state. They all knew that the kinds of things that disrupted Roger’s life easily sent him into a downward spiral. Brian and Deaky were not surprised in the slightest when Freddie sat them down at the table for tea and told them that Rog was still in bed. “He got up a few hours ago to take a piss but he hasn’t been legitimately awake and up since we arrived home.” Freddie said somberly. He’d been keeping a watchful eye on the door to the blond’s room. “So, that means he hasn’t eaten or taken care of himself at all. It’s been a full day.”  
The boys exchanged worried glances as it was not like Roger to not eat or bathe. The man usually took several showers every day, rarely if ever skipped brushing his teeth, and generally hated feeling dirty. He ate fairly well but the skipping meals part wasn’t quite as alarming to the boys as it was a habit he retained from when he and Freddie hadn’t had enough money to eat regularly.  
“Do you think he’s depressed?” Deaky asked cautiously, his eyes darting to Brian who suffered from clinical depression, himself.  
“Well,” Brian began, mulling over that idea, “He’s suffered from pretty severe anxiety in the past so he probably is prone to falling into depression, but even without getting into technicalities it is a very real possibility.” Brian sighed, trying to reign in the scientist in him. “I mean, we have all seen and experienced his unhealthy coping mechanisms. He could also just be feeling like shit.”  
The boys nodded in understanding, silently agreeing with each other that whatever reason Roger was hiding away was enough for them to band together to support him.  
“Well!” Freddie stood with a clap of his hands and started toward Roger’s room. “I think it’s about time to go annoy our dear drummer.” Brian and John exchanged smirks and quickly followed their frontman as he threw Roger’s door open and strode right in.  
“Go away, Fred.” Roger groaned as he pulled a pillow over his head to block out the light.  
“Nonsense, dear, we miss you.”  
Roger peeked out from beneath the pillow to see who ‘we’ included, and he couldn’t help a small smile that touched his lips for a moment. “It’s been a day” he stated, but he wouldn’t admit that he missed them all just as much.  
Freddie wasted no time clambering onto the bed and snuggling up to the drummer in the most obnoxious fashion, Brian joining on Roger’s other side and John joining beside Freddie. Soon, he was enveloped in the warm and undeniably comforting embrace of all three of his band mates.  
“How ya feeling, Roggie?” John asked softly, his arm tightening around Freddie and Roger.  
“Alright, actually, I just feel like my head is imploding.”  
“Still hurts, yeah?” Brian asked.  
“Like a bitch.”  
“How’s your back, darling?” Freddie sighed, stroking a finger down Roger’s arm in a soothing gesture.  
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.”  
“Ah.”  
“Ouch.”  
“Yikes.”  
“Well, darling, I’m sure you’ll be in tip top shape in no time at all…” Freddie trailed off feeling awkward and at a loss for words. He could feel Roger tense in his arms and realized he was beating a dead horse. Roger didn’t want reassurances or sympathy, he wanted someone to wallow with him. “I know this bloody sucks, mate,” Freddie’s tone dropped. “We need you back.” the statement was supported by the sad murmurings of agreement from the other two.  
Roger turned his face into Freddie’s shoulder, his entire body tense and trembling as though he were holding something inside of him that was fighting to burst out. Before long, Freddie could feel his shirt dampening and realized that his best friend was crying. He tightened his arms and curled around him with his chin resting on his hair, and wished with all his might that he could protect the fragile drummer.  
The four of them stayed like that, smooshed together in the too-small bed as the light faded from the gaps in the curtains. Together, four best friends— brothers, embracing in solidarity around the one who needed the other three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I never really expected for this to become more than a one shot so I'm having trouble planning on where I want it to go. if anyone has any suggestions or things they'd like to see in the story I would love to hear them! I apologize for the short chapter, and I know future chapters will be longer and more eventful!  
> Comments and Kudos mean the world to me.


	3. Anxiety Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger has an anxiety attack and Freddie comforts him

Roger could feel his breath catch in his throat and he didn’t know why. Staring in the little hand mirror that was set on the small coffee table of the studio he could see that his eyes were glazed over with unshed tears but it didn’t register in his mind that he was about to cry. In reality, though, he was looking straight at the mirror but all he saw was a blur, not really focusing on his image but instead on his heightened senses as his mind reeled and his heart began to race. He felt hot and uncomfortable, and his stomach seemed to be tying itself in knots as he sat there on the shabby studio conference room couch. He knew this feeling. 

This feeling was all too familiar and the realization of what was happening to him only made it worse. Roger reached for the abandoned drumstick that rested on the couch cushion beside him, longing for the familiar, cool feeling of the smooth wood that fit perfectly in his calloused palm. As he ran his thumb over the wood grain, the thing that usually calmed him only made his heart leap further into his throat, so he bit his lip and attempted to give the stick one of his signature twirls with his shaking fingers. In an uncharacteristic blunder his fingers fumbled the stick and it flew from his grasp, landing with a clatter on the hard floor. Three pairs of eyes that had previously been pouring over the lyrics and compositions of proposed new songs snapped up and surveyed him in surprise. 

“Rog?” It was Brian who spoke up in concern, seeing the panicked look in his bandmate’s eyes. “You alright?”   
Roger stared back, his eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights and his lips slightly parted as all the air seemed to leave his lungs and would not return. After a long moment he averted his eyes as his right hand came up to slip under the collar of his shirt, his fingertips digging into the sensitive skin of his shoulder while he reached his left hand down to retrieve the stick. It visibly shook as it stretched out, something no one seemed to notice except for Freddie, who was Roger’s closest friend and roommate, and who knew him better than he probably even knew himself.   
Though Brian knew Roger longer than he had, Freddie had lived and worked with Roger, and had practically spent every moment with him for several years. He knew things about Rog that no one else in the world knew and he had seen him in positions and situations no one else ever had. He could see what was happening. He was the only one who’d seen it happen before.  
Before the other two bandmates could register anything Freddie had lept to his feet, crossed the room, and had taken Roger’s shaking hand into his. He perched on the couch beside Roger and laid his free hand on his best friend’s back as he leaned to stare into his large, glassy eyes, searching them, reading the masked emotions behind them like an open book. 

“Rog…” he began hesitantly. “You’re okay, darling.”   
Freddie watched in horror, yet wasn’t as surprised as John or Brian were, when the skinny blond’s steely facial expression crumbled and he ducked, hiding his face behind his hand as he bit sharply into the knuckle, his breaths coming in hard, short, panicked bursts as he tried with all his might to hold back the tears that were beginning to escape one by one from his now tightly closed eyes. It was always painful for Freddie to watch when Roger would get like this. Is wasn’t an often occurrence but was definitely something that was usually reserved for the safety of the blond’s bedroom. Living with him, however, it had been inevitable for Freddie to witness Roger’s hard times.  
Roger had always been the type of person to hide his emotions from the world. He kept himself safe from judgement and ridicule that way and he had built up steely walls during his formative years that kept him from becoming too vulnerable with anyone. It had been a complete accident one day that Freddie had stumbled upon Roger in the midst of a breakdown the first week they were living together…

*Flashback*

It was week one in their brand new apartment and every night the two boys had eaten out, their lack of culinary skills forcing the already penniless young adults to scrape up as much from their stall earnings as they could to the point where they had nothing left. Paying their deposit had effectively run them dry to begin with. Freddie was determined to scrape up something for them to eat out of the groceries they had bought after they moved in. They had bread, spaghetti noodles, eggs, milk, and rice. All staples, but nothing Freddie could make an actual meal out of. The only promising item in the kitchen seemed to be the carton of a half dozen eggs.   
Freddie pulled the carton out and laid it on the counter, digging deep into his mind to try to think of how the heck he was supposed to cook them. How had his mother made them all fluffy and mixed up? How had she made the clear part turn white? And how the heck had she made the egg get all rubbery and keep its shape, even when the shell was peeled away? Cooking was a mystery to Freddie. His specialty was visual and aural art, not culinary art.  
One thing he did remember was his mother asking if he wanted them boiled for breakfast. That was the hard, rubbery kind. he pulled out a pot, and set the empty thing on the stove. Okay, he could do this. But wait. Now what?

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath, letting his teeth poke out in an annoyed grimace. He was absolutely useless at this. He knew his only hope would be to ask his flatmate. “Roger,” he called as he turned on his heel and headed for the closed bedroom door on the outskirts on the minuscule living room. “Roger, dear, how do you—“ Freddie’s words died on his lips as he unceremoniously swung the drummers bedroom door open and found him sat on the floor beside his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, face red and eyes pouring rivers of tears as he struggled to catch his breath. Freddie had never seen his new best friend like this, and had never expected to either.   
“Roger…” Freddie whimpered as the drummer his his face behind his hands, furiously swiping at the tears he so desperately tried to keep from coming. 

“Don’t come in,” Roger choked, trying and failing to sound normal around the lump in his throat. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

“Nonsense, darling.” Ignoring the drummers protests, Freddie immediately went into mother hen mode. He swept into the room and without hesitation pulled the frail blond to his feet and onto the bed, gathering him in his arms and pulling his head down to rest on his shoulder. “Tell me what’s eating you, love.” 

And just like that Roger broke down in front of someone for the first time in as long as he could remember. Freddie just had that air about him. For hours Roger wailed to Freddie about money, about being too proud to ask for help from his parents, about his childhood and family dynamic, his fear of failure, his hatred of medical school despite his passion for learning, and how damn hungry he was, and he didn’t even know how to boil an egg. 

Freddie held him and eventually he too broke down and together they shared their woes. They had a lot of the same fears and struggles, and they resolved that they would work them all out together. They were best friends, business owners, a team, damn it. And they were going to be just fine. 

Everything was going to be alright.

*End flashback*

… he’d grown to know how to ground him and support him until it was over. Freddie was the only person allowed in through the tough, mysterious walls of Roger’s complex mind. He was the only person close enough and complex enough to even begin to understand him, himself. 

But now, Roger was having an anxiety attack, and he wasn’t safe from prying eyes. He wasn’t secure in his bed or wrapped in Freddie’s arms in the frontman’s bed either: Instead, he was in a conference room of a recording studio, crumbling before his other two bandmates who were supposed to respect him and had never been allowed to see this side of him. His anxiety never manifested like this in public and he was mortified. He felt weak, scared, and pathetic. He’d take his usual embarrassing, frustration-fueled temper tantrum over this any day. But this was happening no matter how much he didn’t want it to.   
Freddie pulled Roger half into his lap, holding him flush to his side and cradling his head on his collarbone. Freddie carded one hand through the soft, fluffy blond waves while the other arm wrapped around the drummer’s slim form and gripped tightly on his bicep to hold him in place. Roger’s knuckle was still trapped between his teeth in attempt to hold it all in while his other hand remained pressed under the collar of his shirt, both arms pulled in tight over his chest as if he were trying to protect himself. 

“Shhh. You’re okay, love. You need to breathe. You’re okay.” Freddie hummed as he began a slow, side-to-side rocking motion, himself actively trying to steady his own breathing to lead the way for Roger. 

Brian and John exchanged looks of concern and confusion as the painful scene unfolded before them. Brian bit his lower lip giving John a pointed look before theatrically going back to pouring over the lyrics he had been working on, signaling to the bassist that he wanted to pretend that nothing was happening. Though Brian had never seen this side of Roger, he still knew the drummer very well and he knew that if they made a big deal of this he would be very upset about it. It was always best to downplay this type of thing with him because pointing out his emotions made him less likely to ever share them again.

Roger tasted salt and iron as he bit into his knuckle, having accidentally reopened a scab that had come from the inevitable impact of his hands on the rims of his drums, for when he played he couldn’t pay attention to that type of thing and was instead consumed entirely by the music and the beat he needed to flawlessly produce. He took a deep breath and focused on his hands in attempt to ground himself: they ached and stung from the hours of playing he’d been doing recently in preparation for this album.   
Roger released his hand from his teeth and winced as he surveyed the damage as it shook before him. He flexed and stretched his fingers and focused on the feeling as each joint extended, popped, and clicked as he moved them. Scars and callouses littered his hands along with fresh scabs from the day before, and the drummer admired the raw skin curiously, his mind beginning to come out of its fog as he forced himself to feel something other than the swell of painful anxiety in his chest.

Freddie noticed his best friend’s fixation on his hands and slowly brought his own down from the drummer’s hair to wrap gently around the damaged fingers. He ran his thumb lightly over the uneven texture of the knuckles and frowned as he wiped a bit of blood away from the bite. “Oh, Rog,” he breathed lightly, but swallowed the remark he wanted to make about him hurting himself, accidental or not. He needn’t call attention to it. Freddie then gently took Roger’s other wrist and lightly extracted the drummer’s other hand from his shirt, bringing it down to clasp with the other, where the frontman held them lightly. “Look at all the work you’ve put in, darling,” Freddie cooed, choosing instead to offer validation to his bandmate. “You’re doing so well. We couldn’t do any of this without you.”

Roger felt a wave of relief at the opening to share the feelings he wasn’t even sure how to put into words. All he knew was he needed Freddie to know how he was feeling, because he couldn’t go on alone much longer. “It’s a lot, Fred,” he breathed, his voice shaking as he referred not just to the early mornings, late nights, and long stretches away from his family, but to all that along with the every day strain of being human. “I’m so tired.” 

“I know, love,” Freddie continued to draw patterns over Roger’s hands with his thumb as the hand that was resting on his back travelled up to squeeze his shoulders. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, darling, but you’re so important to us and all of this work you do, all the pain and sacrifice is what has helped us get to this point. You know success doesn’t come easy. There’s a reward for all of this and it’s knowing we did what we came to do.”

The drummer nodded as he let himself relax into Freddie, wilting into his friend’s side as he tried to soak up the warmth Freddie radiated. “This is all I’ve ever wanted. But I’m just so tired.”

Freddie just nodded and slowly wrapped both arms around him, letting him relax and rest in his embrace for a while. Fred felt for the drummer, as all of this was a lot for all of them, but he knew the level of dedication and commitment Roger held for the rockstar life transcended the others’ and that came along with more frustration and strain. He put in so much work and gave so much of himself to the band but he was rarely acknowledged due to the fact that he was just the drummer. People who didn’t know much about music didn’t know that the band wouldn’t be Queen without Roger. People rarely knew that the trademark harmonies that were as if not more recognizable than the shrill of Brian’s guitar were all thanks to Roger’s incredible range. People rarely knew that many of the hits were of Roger’s creation, or that the drummer had played several other instruments other than drums on Queen tracks. Freddie knew Roger’s tremendous contributions to the band were often overlooked, but that regardless the drummer put his entire heart and soul into all the work he did. The poor man was simply drained. If Freddie knew anything, he knew he would sit there on that couch holding Roger for eternity if it meant making him feel better. 

Roger’s breathing returned to normal as he stared at his hands with the same intense focus that was normally reserved only for his drums. His best friend had seen what was working for him and had gone with it, helping to pull him out of the dark fog that hand been consuming him, and his warm embrace was acting like a charger, seeping relief and energy into the young blond.   
A while passed before Roger finals sat up and stretched before he pushed his glasses on and glanced back at the lyric sheet he’d been pouring over before his little episode. Freddie didn’t move to get up but instead settled into a more comfortable position on the couch, not wanting to be far from his friend. 

Brian had been waiting for everything to cool down, and noticed immediately when Roger’s demeanor changed almost completely back to normal. Relief flooded the guitarist as he watched his friend return to his regular mannerisms, though concern still lurked behind the initial reaction. “Alright there, Rog?” Brian asked, peering over the rims of his own readers.

“Alright.” Roger confirmed, and just like that, the band returned to work as though nothing had happened. Despite not knowing what had caused the drummer to get so upset, they knew him well enough to know that if he said it would be, everything really would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I've already received one request and I'll start working on it asap. I can't tell you all how much comments, requests, and just general interactions mean to me. I hope you all enjoy and keep coming back for more!


	4. Chest Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Dr Fahrenheit. Roger lets a cold go on for far too long and develops pneumonia.

If there was one thing Roger Taylor truly hated, it was appearing weak. So when he came down with a terrible cold in the chilly, late autumn air of London he didn’t actively complain about it to the rest of the band. During their rehearsals and meetings when he would let out painful, hacking coughs or when he couldn’t quite hit a note he normally could with ease he blew it off as his smoking habit getting the best of him, he’d say he’d cut back a bit and rest his voice and would be back to himself in no time.  
But that wasn’t the case and the boys knew it. They also knew their drummer well enough to know not to press the issue. Roger could become quite testy when he was accused of anything: he would become cold and closed off or explosively angry, as he had learned poor defense mechanisms in his formative years.   
Rehearsal was tough for him with his illness. Roger tried so hard to hide how miserable he really felt, but he’d spiked a fever the night before and it didn’t look like this simple cold was going anywhere any time soon. He thought about calling the boys and telling them that he needed a day off, but when he’d picked up the phone to call Freddie the frontman had other things to talk about.

Even just walking to the phone had Roger nearly wheezing. With shaking fingers he dialed the number he knew by heart and waited as it rang. 

“Helloooo” Freddie sang into the receiver, his buttery voice warped slightly through the speaker. “Mercury residence. May I ask who’s gracing my telephone line?”

“Fred, it’s Rog,” the drummer exhaled carefully, twisting the cord around his calloused fingers to channel his nerves. He hated calling off because if there was anyone as dedicated to music as Freddie, it was Roger, and he knew success didn’t come to those who didn’t work for it, and he also felt terrible about letting the boys down. 

“Oh, Roger, darling!” Freddie crowed in excitement. “I just have the most wonderful idea for a song in mind and I need your opinion on it! I can’t wait to hear what you think. I think you’ll like it, you see, there are some harmonies we’ll need your lovely range for, and we can do some overdubs and such…” 

Roger’s focus shifted from Freddie’s excited rant to his own disappointment. There was no way he could let his best friend down by telling him he couldn’t come to rehearsal. The frontman was talking a mile a minute and Roger just simply didn’t have it in him to kill his excitement. There was only one option, to buck up and go.

“… So enough about my idea, are you bringing anything in today?” 

“Nah, not today, Fred. Haven’t had any inspiration, I suppose.”

“Ah that’s alright, it’ll come, darling. You called?”

“Oh, uh, I completely forgot what for, Fred.” The lie slipped off his tongue like turpentine.

“Alright, love. If it comes to you tell me at rehearsal. I’ll see you soon!” Freddie hung up before Roger could say another word.

With a heavy sigh that sent Roger into a coughing fit he set the phone back on the hook and shuffled his way back to the couch. Rehearsal was in less than an hour and he was still in his gray sweatpants and oversized tour t-shirt, but the always fashionable “Rainbow Man” Taylor couldn’t find it in himself to care at all. He was incredibly uncomfortable: sweating one minute and shivering the next. Sometimes even both at the same time. His chest constricted painfully as he lazed on the couch, dreading having to get up, and a violent shiver ran down his spine as he was sent into another coughing fit that left him gasping painfully for air.  
Roger could have stayed on that couch forever, but his watch read that it was time to get moving and he couldn’t leave his band high and dry without a drummer to practice with, so slowly but surely the stubborn blond got to his feet and shuffled to the door, sliding on his rattiest trainers that were usually only reserved for late night smoke breaks, and slipping his coat over his shoulders. He fished his keys out of the pocket and made his way to the car. He didn’t feel right. His chest was too tight and the world seemed to be tilting like it did whenever he was too drunk and laid in bed to stare at the ceiling, but he was too stubborn to call it quits now. The sickly drummer made it to his car in double the time he normally would and was actually wheezing as he slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Alright, Taylor, get it together,” he spat through gritted teeth as he fumbled to get the key in the ignition. Knuckles white against the steering wheel he drove maybe a little too slow to the rehearsal space at the college, focusing on the road as hard as he could to keep the world from swirling around in his fever induced haze. He pulled into the car park almost five minutes late, which wasn’t like him at all, and he wobbled dangerously as he pushed himself up out of the car. Steadying himself with a tight grip on the car door, he let himself catch his breath before heading in. Normally he’d have a smoke to clear his head on the way but he knew it wasn’t a good idea, not while his chest felt like it was in a vice grip.  
By the time Roger approached the band room door he was ten minutes late and the boys were standing just inside, bickering.

“Somethings wrong, I spoke to him not too long ago, what if he got in an accident?” Freddie’s voice was an octave higher than normal and he sounded quite distressed.

“Calm down, Fred,” Roger was surprised to hear Brian attempting to be the voice of reason. “He probably just got caught up and lost track of time. I’m sure he’ll be here.”

“Wait, he’s here!” John’s voice rang out as Roger pushed the door open, creeping in as he drew shallow, rattling breaths. 

“Darling there you are!” Freddie shouted, throwing his arms dramatically around the blond’s shoulders. “Oh I was starting to get so worried, love! Wait,” the frontman gave his drummer a once over, a deep frown wiping away his excited expression. “Are you alright, Rog?” What Freddie saw was a sad sight indeed. Roger wasn’t wearing his normal decadent, bright attire, but instead was in what appeared to be pajamas. His dirty blond hair was tousled and looked unwashed, and he had dark circles under his eyes, contrasting sharply with his extremely pale features. He looked a right mess.

“I’m fine, Fred,” another lie, and he gently shoved the frontman’s arms away as he headed for the drum kit, plopping down in exhaustion onto the stool without bothering to remove his coat, as he felt cold anyway. “Let’s get on with it then.”

The other band members exchanged brief looks of concern and confusion before dispersing to tune their various instruments.

“Very well,” Brian began. “Doing Alright?” the guitarist strummed a few chords to key in the simple, slow song they often used to warm up together.  
Out of all of their songs it was probably the easiest, least demanding for all of them to play, but as Roger lifted his drumsticks he felt as though he were drumming a much higher tempo song, his arms felt like led. His mind was in a haze as he used muscle memory to get through the song. If Freddie or Brian add libbed at all he didn’t catch on because he couldn’t focus on anything more that getting through the song. He drummed exactly as it was recorded and kept a count down in his mind of how much longer he’d have to go on, and by the second verse his chest felt as though it were legitimately on fire.   
By some miracle Roger made it through the song and dropped his sticks onto the snare drum without bothering to end the song neatly and his hands gripped his knees as he doubled over, gasping for breath. His body automatically tried to start his regular breathing exercise, in through his nose and out through his mouth, that he would often do between demanding songs in concert, but he felt as if the air was coming through the narrow passage of a coffee stir rather than through his nose and mouth. His mind went into overdrive and he repeated “you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re fine.” over and over in his internal monologue in attempt to calm himself down. 

But he wasn’t fine and he knew it. Something was very wrong.

“Rog?” John asked, setting his bass down and taking a cautious step toward the drummer. Though they all knew drumming was physically demanding, they also knew their drummer, and Doing Alright was usually a breeze for him. It was not normal nor okay that he was having such a hard time, yet he put up and hand to keep his bandmate at bay. 

“I’m… I’m fine… Deaky,” he wheezed painfully, interrupting himself with strangled coughs.

“You’re most definitely not okay, Roger,” Brian stated in a stern voice like a disappointed mother. 

Freddie hurried to his best friend’s side and placed a cautious hand on his shoulder and the other on his back to rub soothing circles. “Easy does it, now. We really should get you to a doctor, love.”

“N-no!” Roger cried in frustration, “I’m… I’m bloody fine!” Again dissolving into a fit of coughs, he wasn’t very convincing. “Look,” he panted, “Let’s just get through practice and I’ll go home and rest. I’ll be okay soon enough.”

“Oh don’t be so fucking ridiculous,” Brian sighed, already packing the Red Special back into her case. “We’re taking you to the hospital right now. You can barely breathe, Rog. You’ve been sick all week and hiding it from us, just admit it.”

“F-fine.” Roger stuttered, a lump forming in his already sore throat. He’d been caught and he had to give in or he’d only make it worse for himself. 

“You’re not in trouble, Roger,” the guitarist’s voice and expression softened as he watched the panicked look in the drummer’s eyes. “We just want to help but you’re stubborn as a bloody ox.”

Roger nodded as tears of frustration welled in his eyes and all three of his bandmates surrounded him and helped him to his feet before guiding him toward the door and out to the car park. They settled him into the back seat of John’s tiny car and Freddie joined him, pulling him down to rest his head in his lap and carding a hand through his already messy hair, while Brian and John sat up front.   
The ride to the hospital was agonizing for Roger and his bandmates. Now that he could stop pretending it was as if all he was feeling had come crashing down like a waterfall and he felt worse than ever. His chest now felt so tight he could barley sustain consciousness and his fever haze had worsened ten fold. He was practically rolling around in misery as tears began to flow from the corners of his eyes, and the wet sobs attempting to tear from his chest only made everything feel so much worse. It felt as if his lungs were trapped and he couldn’t do anything about it. It was extremely hard for them to see him in so much pain, especially Freddie who held his best friend in his lap the whole way.

The boys herded their drummer into the luckily empty emergency department and when the nurses saw the state he was in they took him back immediately. A cold stethoscope, one chest x-ray, a nebulizer treatment, and a mild sedative to calm his nerves and Roger was relaxed against the stiff sheets of a hospital bed, eyelids drooping sleepily as his bandmates surrounded him. 

“Bloody pneumonia.” Brian spat in disbelief. “You had a cold but because you were too stubborn or too proud or whatever it is you were to take a damn break now you have bloody pneumonia! Roger, do you have any idea how serious this is? People die from pneumonia!” The guitarist spoke with a panic in his voice, flourishing his arms around in exasperation. 

“It’s not the eighteenth century, Bri. It’s not that serious.” Roger slurred, exhaustion and sedation starting to get the better of him.

“Well, yes it is, Roger.” John pointed out meekly, gesturing to the x-ray the doctor had left up in the room. It showed severe infection in Rogers already smoke damaged lungs. They were filled with an ungodly amount of fluid and the doctor had been shocked that Roger had been drumming before coming in, saying he shouldn’t have even been on his feet. 

“You’re a biology major, and you were in fucking medical school for God’s sake, Roger!” Brian cried, “You should bloody well know better!”

“I’m fine…” Roger slurred, barely even conscious. 

“Shh!” Freddie hissed, finally speaking up. “You’re yelling at him because he didn’t take care of himself so stop making a racket and let the poor man sleep!” Freddie plopped down into a chair beside the drummer’s bed and gently took his hand as the latter slipped fully into sedation. “Why don’t the two of you go pack up the rehearsal space and take his car home,” Freddie tossed the keys he’d taken from Roger’s coat in Brian’s general direction. “I can call when he gets released. Or you can come back before that. I don’t care. I agree he was being stupid, I just think he’s suffered enough, don’t you?”

Begrudgingly the two remaining bandmates nodded and scurried out of the room to take care of the instruments and other possessions left at the college, and Freddie stayed behind to stand sentry over the ill drummer, making sure to drape an extra blanket over his sleeping friend.   
Freddie was just glad that Roger would recover and be completely back to normal in a few weeks’ time, and was eternally grateful that Roger had been with the band when he’d gone downhill so fast. They were able to get him help that they all knew knew the stubborn drummer would have never gotten on his own. Freddie didn’t know it, but his enthusiasm to hold rehearsal that day had been what had essentially saved his friend from a much worse fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! kudos and comments are much appreciated <3


	5. Food Poisoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cgirl1981 requested: "Love roger whump stories. How about severe food poisoning and major vomiting.maybe starting on stage at a concert and then continues at home"

Something wasn’t right.

The lights were too bright, too hot. The bass drum pounding through his monitor was deafening and the sound of blood rushing through his ears only magnified it. A churning in his stomach and an unbearable heat in his cheeks let him know that something wasn’t right at all. 

Sure, concerts were always loud, hot, and exhausting, but normally his adrenalin kicked in and none of that was really noticeable. Normally Roger had a blast performing: making faces at Freddie and occasionally Brian and John as they passed before his drum kit as they travelled the stage. Normally he loved a quick show off of his skills, a drum solo to complement Brian’s guitar work, flashy cymbal smashes with the snare to signal the others. Normally he felt on top of the world while performing: completely confident, excited to play their music to make people happy, overjoyed to be playing with his favorite people in the world.

But not tonight.

No, tonight was not his night. Not at all. Tonight he felt a kind of unexpected sensory overload and though it was a long concert he was getting unusually tired as he played through the twelfth song of the set, Liar, having a blast as usual just moments prior, until during Deaky’s bass line he began to feel it: a twisting sensation in his stomach that had him swallowing desperately as his face flushed and he began to feel less in control. 

Just get through the song. He thought. The boys were pretty good at checking in on him after drum-heavy numbers like this to allow him to catch his breath. A little breather, that’s all he needed. But he was only kidding himself: he knew his body well enough to know that something definitely was not right.

He put on a perfect facade to the audience that nothing was amiss but made eye contact with John as he wailed on his cymbals at the coda, and saw in John’s face that he recognized something was wrong. Luckily Love of My Life was next and he could get a quick break, and after the final cymbal smash of Liar he didn’t hesitate to jump down off his riser and make his way on shaking legs to where his assistant, Crystal stood with a towel and a water.

“Alright, mate?” Crystal asked, raising his brows in concern at the drummer’s disheveled appearance. 

Roger shook his head “I’m— I’m gonna—“ but he couldn’t get his words out before he doubled over, clutching his stomach as he vomited violently onto the floor. 

Crystal shouted in surprise and rushed to the drummer’s aide, shooing away other roadies who came to see if they could help, as he knew Roger didn’t like pitying attention. John jogged over as well, a martini clutched in his hand in true John Deacon fashion. 

Roger groaned after he spit a final time, his head was swimming as he straightened up and he felt as though he’d been hit by a bloody train. “I don’t know where that came from,” he grumbled as Crystal took him by the elbow and guided him over to a small folding chair that had been set before an air fan for him.

“Easy does it, Rog.” Crystal sighed as he helped the drummer ease into his seat. “Have some water, yeah?”

“Think you’ll be able to finish the concert?” John asked, sipping his drink nervously.

“‘Course I bloody will!” Roger growled stubbornly as he pulled his sweat-soaked shirt over his head and tossed it unceremoniously at the nearest wall in frustration. The wave of nausea the action created shouldn’t have caught him by surprise, but it did, and he rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head into the stream of air from the fan, trying hard to control his breathing through his nose. 

“Well, they’re almost done, mate,” John sighed referring to Brian and Freddie as he placed his glass down on a nearby speaker. “’39’s next.”

“Lovely.” The drummer rolled his eyes and got to his feet, legs still shaking.

No one asked the cranky blond any more questions as John retreated to his side of the stage to grab his bass and Crystal slipped a button up shirt over Roger’s arms. He then placed a tambourine in his hand and gave him a pat on the shoulder in silent encouragement. Crystal knew Roger could hold his own and he didn’t want to risk further upsetting him by coddling him, so he sent the drummer back onto the stage without another word.

The other two bandmates were oblivious to the drummer’s backstage plight and once John and Roger had joined then at the front of the stage they launched right into ’39. With the adrenalin of being up front Roger was able to lock in and perform as he was meant to, even going so far as to goof off a little with Freddie, but alas as the song drew to a close and the excitement dissipated he felt himself tipping toward another downward spiral. He was at least relieved to hide behind his drum kit, and noticed someone had placed a bucket behind his chair along with a very cold and miraculous-looking bottle of water, which he guzzled down as though his mouth were a funnel. 

The rest of the concert crawled by and Roger did in fact have to make use of the bucket after three more songs, vomiting up all the water he had drank minutes prior. He was miserable, sweat poured down his face and body as he stood, trembling to make his way to the front of the stage to bow with his brothers after the final encore. Finally it was over. He received worried glances from both John and Brian, who now realized that something was wrong, and none of the three of them lingered too long on stage, allowing Freddie to say his intimate goodbye to the audience. The singer had been in an unusually good mood tonight so they weren’t going to put out his fire quite yet. 

Roger’s stomach lurched painfully as they entered the back hallway and he stopped, leaning his exhausted body heavily on the cool cinder block wall. Brian and John had taken several steps before they realized he was no longer in stride with them and once they did, turned back to rush to his aid. Roger slid down the wall with a groan, clutching his stomach as he squeezed both his eyes and lips shut to fight off the nausea. His head spun wildly and his insides felt as though they were disintegrating as the world felt as though it were tipping. He didn’t like this. No, not one little bit.

Over the rushing in his ears the ill drummer could hear someone trying to coax him to open his eyes, but he shook his head in desperate attempt to deter them, because if he did he was sure he was going to be sick again. But the unfamiliar, persistent voice wasn’t going away and John’s soft voice joined in with it.

“Rog, you need to respond,” Deaky stated, gently yet firmly, and Roger felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder. “He’s just trying to make sure you’re alright.” Roger peeked open one eye to see the uniform of a backstage medic. He interacted with them often when he needed his hands bandaged but he was certainly not in the mood to be crowded by them at the moment.

The medic was a young man probably in his early thirties with sandy brown hair and a concerned look on his chiseled face. “Mr. Taylor, how are you feeling? What’s the matter?”

“I’m nauseous. Hot.” Roger croaked out, his pained expression quickly turning into a scowl as he noticed how many people were gathered around him. Where was Crystal to keep them all off his arse? “I threw up twice” he added, his voice strained from the distress he felt with all the eyes on him.

“When did this start?” The medic picked up the drummer’s left wrist and pushed his sweatband up his arm a bit in order to press two fingers to his pulse point, another action that drove the drummer closer to full on melt-down. 

“During Liar.” Roger grunted. “You’ll find I’m tachycardic.” He grumped, revealing the former med student in him. “Was just drumming for two bloody hours, mate. You won’t get a proper blood pressure either so don’t torture me with that bloody cuff.”

“Right.” The medic grumbled, his worry quickly turning into annoyance as Roger’s focus shifted away from him to shoot angry glares at his new backstage audience. The crew should know better by now than to crowd him when he was in a bad mood, and either way, gawking at him like he’d sprouted an extra head was just downright rude. “Alright, sir, this was a quick onset? You weren’t feeling bad at all before the concert?”

“No. As I said it started during Liar.”

“Roggie,” Brian spoke up in a scolding, mother hen tone. “He’s just trying to help you.”

“He’s turning me into a bloody spectacle, just leave me alone won’t you?! All of you!” The drummer tried to put on a genuinely angry front but his voice cracked and betrayed him, revealing his truly panicked state.

“You’re the one turning yourself into a spectacle, mate.” John commented. 

“Fuck off, John.” Roger spat, using the wall to push himself back up to his feet. He paused again to clutch his head as black spots polluted his vision, making it impossible for him to navigate. A hand, Brian’s he assumed, gripped his shoulder and led him farther down the hall until he could clear his vision and see his own way, and the bandmates retreated into the dressing room they all shared. 

Inside the secure walls of the dressing room, Roger felt much less exposed and irritated and he made a beeline for the couch. Now he just felt tired and sick. He collapsed onto the ragged sofa and rested his forehead on his hand, wincing at the unpleasant feeling of stage makeup mixed with sweat rubbing off on his fingers, and tried to level his breathing. Normally he was the first to jump in the shower after a performance like that as he hated feeling dirty and much preferred to be fresh and comfortable, but he didn’t think he could stand the steam without hurling again, although he knew it would probably happen anyway. He kept his eyes closed, just breathing as he calmed himself, the other boys keeping to themselves as they bustled around him in their post-show routines.

The room was oddly quiet for after a show. They would usually be shouting happily and/or critiquing their performances together as they planned for afterward, the buzz of the stage high still touring through their veins. The room was quiet that was until their lead singer burst through the door, Ratty and Crystal hot on his heels, both looking rather annoyed. 

“Roger, darling!” the singer shouted, his voice echoing off the hard walls and even through the drummer’s tired and muffled hearing reverberated through his skull. “Why on earth didn’t you say you were ill?” 

Roger wasn’t about to explain to yet another person, so he just groaned and slid down to lie on the couch, exhaustion taking hold of him quickly, yet his stomach churned violently with the movement. Crystal waved off the singer and strode over to the drummer’s side to tend to him. “He’s been on a rampage since he noticed your mess backstage,” Crystal grumbled, crouching by his boss’s side. “Shouting at everyone for not taking proper care of you yet he held up Ratty and I by being a bloody drama-queen.” 

Roger’s only response was another groan, his face paling, feeling his body take on a mind of its own as a violent cramp gripped his stomach and he curled in on himself. Bile shot up his esophagus once more and before he could warn anyone or request a bucket he’d vomited down his front, taking no mind to his assistant’s shout of surprise or the unpleasant feeling of sick on his bare chest.  
No one really knew what to do, and the bandmates and assistants stood, unsure of the situation as they watched their drummer suffering helplessly. “He has to have eaten something bad. We didn’t even drink last night.” John commented, a concerned lilt to his voice.

“The sushi he had at the hotel could’ve been the culprit.” Freddie sighed with a dramatic eye roll. “It did seem a bit improper. We should get him straightened up.”  
The others in the room agreed as they watched the incoherent drummer writhe uncomfortably, and nobody moved until Freddie let out an expletive about no one taking initiative and advanced toward his best friend, scooping him up into a sitting position and supporting him as he whimpered and wilted against him. Though Freddie was such a drama queen he’d barely tie his own shoes, he would do anything for Roger, even if it would be unpleasant. “Come on now, darling, you have got to get cleaned up. No one’s getting in a car with you smelling like this.” No hint of jest colored the singer’s tone as he helped Roger out of his sweat-soaked clothes and guided him over to the locker room-style showers in a connected room. All the boys showered and changed quickly, exchanging worried glances at times as their drummer struggled to hold himself upright at times.

Back at the hotel after a nauseating limo ride Roger was immediately whisked up to the band’s floor and into his room by his bandmates. He’d managed to change into sweatpants and a t-shirt after his shower back at the stadium so after brushing his teeth he went straight to bed. As the drummer came out of the bathroom with every intent to collapse into the soft sheets and sleep for days he was surprised to find his bandmates lingering in his room, huddled together discussing how they could help their ill friend. 

“Boys,” Roger groaned, embarrassment and guilt flooding him at the sight of his friends’ concern for him. “Go raise hell, I’ll be alright.”

It was rare for the band to stay in after a concert, after all. Despite the late nights they always had adrenalin pumping through their veins that made it hard to even sit still let alone sleep, and Freddie and Roger would be up til all hours of the morning living their rockstar lives to the fullest. The fact that they were staying in because Roger clearly couldn’t go out upset him more than it should have.

“Nonsense, darling. You’re ill, we’d be awful to leave you all alone.” Freddie swooped down upon the drummer and led him to the bed with a gentle hand. “Easy does it, Rog.”

“But I don’t want to take your fun away. Just send up Crystal or Ratty to keep me company, at least they get paid for it.”

“No, love. We’re staying. That’s final.”

“Yeah, mate, we’re a family,” John came and joined the pair on the bed, settling on the other side of Rog. “I don’t even think we’d be able to enjoy the night knowing you’re so miserable. It wouldn’t be right.”

Brian found the small hotel trash bin and brought it over to set beside the bed in case Roger needed it. He then plopped down on Freddie’s other side, snatching the TV guide from the nightstand. “Right. Now what movie shall we watch, hmm?” 

The night passed agonizingly slow for all four boys as they cycled between joyfully snuggling together to watch whatever bullshit they could find on TV and holding on to Rog while he puked up the water they had been giving him in desperate attempt to keep him hydrated. After the fifth time, however, he finally passed out from pure exhaustion to the soothing feeling of Brian stroking his hair as John and Freddie went off in desperate search of some kind of anti-nausea medication.

Having his friends fret over his well being was something Roger didn’t allow often. He was a stubborn man who hated appearing weak, but as he drifted off to sleep with all three of his best friends doting on him and making desperate attempts to make him feel better the drummer couldn’t help but feel incredibly loved. Though he felt like absolute shit he knew he had the people who cared most about him and that made it all okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me your thoughts and opinions! I would love to know what you'd like to see in this collection.


	6. Beaten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger finds himself in a dangerous situation after a 24 hour long bender of drugs and booze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Violence, and there is a tiny bit, like two sentences in which sexual assault could be implied. I did not write that as being an event of the story but based off of these small details it could be implied or interpreted so please do not read if this may upset you.
> 
> I’ve been working on this story line for a while as a writing exercise. Please give some constructive criticism, as I would love to be able to improve my writing! Not beta read, I reread and edit myself so I easily could miss mistakes.

Freddie led Roger to the bathroom, keeping his shaking hands on the blond’s shoulders to steady him as he shuffled down the hallway. As Freddie followed him in, Roger’s big, deep blue eyes met his brown ones, searching desperately for comfort. Freddie took a shuttering breath as he observed his best friend’s eyes, bloodshot and red rimmed from the panicked tears that had been flowing just prior to arriving back home to their flat. He'd never seen them like that before and Freddie’s heart hurt looking into those soulful, sad eyes.

Their 24-hour bender had been meant for pure fun and over-indulgence, but it had ended terribly. Copious amounts of drugs and alcohol had infiltrated both their systems over the course of their escapades but they’d been doing relatively fine until almost exactly 24 hours after they’d started. It was only 10pm now, and they’d had no intention of stopping until they’d been quite literally kicked back to reality. Now Roger was hurting and Freddie was scared. At least they had each other back home in one piece, which was all Freddie cared about in that moment. 

“Go on, Rog, get yourself cleaned up and I’ll throw your clothes in the hamper and get you a towel.” Freddie’s voice shook with his hands as he began to try to help his friend with the remaining buttons on his torn and bloody shirt. “Better yet, I’ll just throw them away” he mumbled to himself as Roger shakily handed over the shirt and began to fumble clumsily with his jeans, his mind muddled with a mixture of controlled substances and shock, and his hands shaking unsteadily. 

Fred left Rog to shower and tossed the clothes lazily into the laundry hamper in the blond’s room before booking it to the telephone on the wall in the kitchen. He had to call in reinforcement before Roger could keep him from doing so. All Freddie could say over the phone was that he needed them to come, and he quickly hung up and went on to fetch a towel for Rog, his mind reeling with the events of the last two hours of their 24-hour bender. 

Roger scrubbed himself head to toe, feeling horrendously unclean, but his rational mind told him he was as clean as he was going to get and he sighed in defeat as he turned off the water. After the hot shower had pretty much burned his body back into awareness and out of the haze he’d been in, he now realized just how exhausted he was. He’d never felt this physically and mentally tired before; his muscles ached, his joints groaned with each movement, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings, feeling as though he’d collapse at any moment. Roger toweled off lazily, keeping his eyes away from his bruised and battered body. He couldn't bring himself to see the damage, not yet, and he was grateful for the steamy haze on the mirror blocking his view. He was trying not to even feel it. He wrapped the towel around his hair as he’d seen his sister and previous girlfriends do, not bothering to properly towel it off or comb it: he hated it now, and didn’t care to take care of it as he usually did. As Roger stretched with a pained wince, he noticed neatly folded pajamas set on the lid of the toilet that Freddie must've brought in with the towel. He quickly pulled them on and relished in the comforting, almost safe feeling the flannel pajama pants gave him. Freddie had provided a long sleeve tee shirt as well, bless him, and Roger gratefully pulled on the secure-feeling clothing. Long sleeves and long pants, yet the drummer still felt exposed and vulnerable. 

Roger jumped at the sound of the front door opening. It was a small flat and one could hear anything going on in the living room from the lone hall bathroom with ease, so it was no surprise that he could hear the voices of who had entered. 

"Fred! What the hell was that call about?" That was Brian's panicked voice. Great, he'd called the band. 

"Shh shh, darling I don't want to startle him. John will be here soon as well and then I'll explain..."

Roger didn't hear anything else Freddie said after that. Bile rose in his throat as he processed the singer's words. Explain? No. No he couldn't! He must! But going out to stop him from doing so would only cause a scene and realistically, Roger knew he'd be pestered into explaining anyway if Freddie didn't. There was no stopping this from getting out to their bandmates. They were too close to hide something like this from each other anyway. They were close as could be. Best friends. Brothers.  
With the realization that he couldn't just bury this, Roger felt sick to his stomach, a twisting, churning, uncomfortable feeling he recognized as anxiety. He doubled over and lifted the toilet lid just in time for the bile that had been creeping up his throat to finally escape, and he kept himself as quiet as he could in attempt to deter any more attention than he surely already had on him.   
Afterward, Roger felt that he would actually die if he didn't go to bed. He could barely stand as it was, so with a quick rinse with mouthwash he slipped out into the hallway and shuffled over to his bedroom, quiet as a mouse, closing the door as softly as his tired, clumsy hands could muster. He didn't bother with the lights and simply padded across the dark room and collapsed into his bed with a huff and a grunt of pain, towel still wrapped around his hair, and he was asleep the second his head hit the pillow. 

Out in the living room Freddie collapsed into an armchair as Brian lowered himself onto the small couch. Freddie looked rough: there were dark circles under his eyes and his pupils were still dilated from whatever illicit substances he’d been indulging in. His hair was an absolute mess, seeming to have once been styled but now pointed in all directions, some parts wavy, some parts straight, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained. Brian was growing extremely concerned and impatient with Freddie’s lack of explanation. What had happened? Was he okay? Had Roger been with him? Where even was Roger? The guitarist had opened his mouth to voice his concerns right as the front door opened once more, revealing a very flustered looking John. “Bloody hell, Freddie!” He exclaimed as he rushed into the flat, “You can’t just call and leave me hanging like that!” The bassist had obviously rushed over from his own home, frightened by the urgency in Freddie’s tone over the phone. John’s eyes swept over the room, searching for signs or trouble in the small living area. He was baffled that all seemed alright other than Freddie’s exhausted expression and unkempt appearance. He knew Freddie well enough to infer the gist of what he’d been up to for the past several hours. 

“Deaky, sit down, I’ll explain to you both” Freddie began with a shaky breath. “Roger and I got into a bit of trouble tonight—“

“You went on one of your bloody benders again, didn’t you?!” Brian exclaimed. “Jesus, Fred, you’d think the two of you would have grown up by now!”

“First of all what’s important right now is not what Roger and I do in our free time.” Freddie shot the guitarist a hard glare, piercing him with his intense brown gaze. 

“You need to be a better influence for him, Fred, this is getting unhealthy— hell it’s always been unhealthy!”

“A better influence?” The singer spat, raising from his seat, his hands balled into fists, natural for an ex-boxer. Though he did see himself as a brother to Roger, they were equals in his mind and the three years separating them by age meant nothing. 

“Okay, hold on,” Deaky leaned forward in the seat on the couch he'd taken and put his hands up between his two bandmates. “Explain now, argue later. Freddie, what happened? You’re scaring me.”

Freddie fell back into his chair in defeat, and John blinked in surprise that he’d given up that easily. 

The singer dragged a hand down his face, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily as he gathered himself. “Okay, okay… Roger was attacked.”

“What?!” Brian and John exclaimed in unison. “My God, is he okay?” Brian continued, rising to his feet in panic and whirling around to start down the hallway to the man in question’s room. 

“Wait a second Brian.” John caught him by the wrist and pulled him back down to the couch.

Freddie nodded in affirmation at John action and leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and slumping his shoulders in pure exhaustion. “He was beat up and well, I’m concerned about him. He’s here and I believe he was able to get himself showered and in to bed so he’s okay for now, but I don’t think I can handle this alone. The— the aftermath, I mean."

“What do you mean ‘aftermath’? He’s been in fights before, he can hold his own. It doesn’t normally get to him." Brian commented, confusion in his eyes as he returned to the couch. Roger was tough, never one to back down or be affected by trivial things. Though he rarely got into physical fights and never started them himself, he wasn’t one to back down and would usually come out kicking and spitting. Nothing could put out his fire when it got sparked. 

“Yes he’s been in plenty of fights and he can hold his own," Freddie acknowledged hesitantly. “But this was all one sided, an ambush, really. He didn’t see it coming. A pair of men jumped him from behind, scared the living shit out of him, too. They held a knife on him.” Freddie hung his head, his heart hurting as he recounted the story. 

Brian let out a breath of shock and John remained stony as he uttered one word, barely above a whisper: "Why?" 

“They’d mistaken him for a woman from behind earlier in the night and had tried to hit on him. They were angry and accusing him of being gay because of the way he looks and had assumed I was his boyfriend or something. I— I let him go off to the bathroom by himself a bit later. Back in the hallway where the bathrooms are, you know at that club around the corner from the studio, he got jumped. I was worried when he didn’t come back after a bit so I went to check on him to find two men being absolutely awful to him, calling him horrible, terrible things. Hurting him for no good reason. God, he didn’t deserve that—“ Freddie choked back a sob and hung his head in his hands. “They had a knife to his throat, just wailing on him. God, the look on his face—“ Remembering his friend’s terrified expression broke the singer’s heart all over again. The image was burned into his brain. He could still see the tear tracks lining the full cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes wider than those of an owl, bloodshot and panic-stricken. He could still feel the way his best friends chest heaved as he pulled him into his arms and hastily out of the club to sit him on the curb outside. He still felt the terror he’d felt when he’d realized Roger couldn’t breathe and his mind had immediately jumped to the conclusion that it had something to do with the trickle of blood oozing from a thin wound under his adam’s apple, before Freddie came to his senses and realized seconds later that the drummer was having a panic attack. 

Brian and John were both reeling at this point, disgusted and horrified by what had happened to their bandmate. Seeing Freddie so worked up over what had happened told them that it must have been truly frightening for him, and that broke their hearts. “How’d you get them away from him, Fred?” John choked out, biting his lower lip as his eyes examined Freddie for damage from afar. 

“I tore those fuckers off him and kicked their arses of course.” The singer straightened up and pulled himself together a bit. “Had them running for the hills. I think they ended up worse off than Rog, truthfully.” The whole situation had been hell, but Freddie was relieved to he behind locked doors, safe with his best friends. He’d do anything for his bandmates, especially Roger, who was his brother, his partner in crime. He’d fight those bastards a thousand times to keep his Roggie safe. 

“Is he okay?” Brian pressed. 

“No, Bri,” Fred began, his dark eyes meeting the guitarist’s. “He’s hurt, I don’t know how bad. He was very upset and kept saying he just wanted to come home, so I just brought him here. He showered off and I think he got himself to bed. I haven’t had the chance to really look him over at all. I didn’t know what to do, he was a right mess— I’ve never seen him like that. I think... I think he had a panic attack or something.” Freddie bit his lip, thinking back to the images of the drummer looking so small with tears cascading down his blotchy face as he struggled to take in even a single breath, the violent shaking that had overtaken his thin body, and the cracking of his voice as he begged for Freddie to let him go home. They were all burned into Freddie’s memory forever. 

“Well, that makes a bit of sense. You know that he was abused, Fred…” Brian softly prompted, his voice low and dark, his expression one of horror as he interrupted Freddie's reverie. 

“Of course I bloody know!” Freddie snapped, annoyed and confused as to how that was relevant. Roger never spoke of it and they all pretended it wasn’t a thing. That’s what Roger wanted. Why would Brian bring that up now?

“He’s probably been triggered.” Brian explained as he ran his hands over his face in exhaustion. He understood Freddie's confusion in the matter, but it was still a nuisance trying to pull the singer onto the same train of thought. “Something like that happens and makes his body react like he's back in the past. Adrenalin, flashbacks and such. Poor bloke. I honestly don’t know what to do.”

“I feel like an attack like that would make anyone panic.” John said, bitterly. The bassist leapt to his feet indignantly and started down the hallway just as he’d stopped Brian from doing earlier. “I’m going to check on him.” John knew the first thing they needed to do was to make sure he didn’t need medical attention. By the sound of it, Roger could be seriously hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED...
> 
> let me know what you think! I’ve written the next part already but let me know if John checking on Roger is something you’d like to see in detail, because I haven’t written that part in as of yet because I don’t know if it will be interesting for readers.


	7. Beaten pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger wakes up the morning after his attack to his bandmates taking care of him.

John made his way down the short hallway of his bandmates’ flat, his heart pounding as he approached the closed wooden door at the end. No light shone beneath it indicating that the drummer within was either asleep or trying to sleep. At first, John reached for the doorknob, but paused as his skin made contact with the cold metal. Instead, he raised his hand up into a fist and hesitated, internally battling with himself whether he should risk waking Roger if he were sleeping or risk frightening him by barging in if he wasn’t. 

John decided the lesser risk was to wake him so he lightly rapped on the door, “Roger, it’s me,” he cooed softly, leaning his ear against the cool wood to listen for movement within the room. Nothing. He reached once more for the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open, peering into the darkness for any sign of movement. The light from the hall spilled in through the open door and lit the small room enough for John to locate his target. Roger was lying sprawled on his back atop his covers with a towel piled around his head. The light illuminated the blond man’s face, revealing the damage to his normally cherubic features.   
John’s stomach flipped as he approached the bed, Roger looked rough; even in his sleep a pained expression deepened the line between his brows and set a pout on his bloodied lips. His breathing was rather disturbingly shallow and uneven and John found it concerning that he hadn’t burrowed beneath his blankets or taken care of his hair like he normally would. For a moment the bassist considered waking his bandmate so that he could have a proper look over him, but before he could move the drummer twitched in his sleep, eliciting a small whine from his chest and causing his expression to deepen. He was in pain.

John’s heart broke at the pitiful sight before him and knelt beside the bed so that he could run a hand over the damp blond hair that poked out of the towel. “Shh, Rog. You’re alright,” he whispered in attempt to soothe his friend without waking him. He noticed a small bead of blood oozing from a gash above the drummer’s nearly invisible blond eyebrow, so he then slowly pulled the towel out from under Roger’s head and gently used it to dab at the cut.   
Rog let out another noise of discomfort and groaned as he unconsciously shifted his body in a vain attempt to readjust into a more comfortable position. John noticed goosebumps forming on the drummer’s full cheeks along a slight trembling of his lips as he pulled his arms up and curled his hands under his chin, a shuddering breath escaping his lips. John realized the poor chap was cold. He had wet hair and was laying on top all his covers after all. Brainstorming how to fix this problem and knowing full well Roger and Freddie didn’t have the luxury of a linen closet full of spare blankets John got to his feet and padded across the carpeted room and hallway into Freddie’s room, ready to take full advantage of his only available solution. 

Neatly folded at the end of Freddie’s bed lay a rather ugly but luxuriously warm and comforting wool throw blanket. It was one of Fred’s favorites and he was fiercely protective over it but John knew he’d be okay with the fact that it was going to his best friend in a time of need (regardless of how often Roger himself tried to steal the thing much to Freddie’s annoyance). Satisfied with his solution, John gently shooed one of Freddie’s cats away from where it had been sleeping soundly on the blanket before gathering it into his arms. 

Back in Roger’s room, having covered him with the throw blanket and carefully tucked him in, John settled cross-legged on the floor and rested his back against the night stand. “There we are, mate. You’ll be alright.” He patted Roger’s arm as he settled down, and wasn’t sure if he’d made the right choice by not waking his injured friend to look him over properly. His mind raced with fears and anxieties but he decided he would relax until morning as long as the drummer’s breathing didn’t worsen. He could hear the conversation fading back in the living room, so with a glance to his watch decided he’d listen to Rog for another half hour before calling it a night. So John sat and he listened.

Much to Roger's surprise he had a dreamless, peaceful sleep. When he woke up what must've been hours after his shower he had no recollection of even sleeping at all. No dreams, no tossing and turning, just a flat, dark, dreamless sleep. He'd needed it. Badly. But as his eyes were met with the dim yet present natural light filtering through the curtains from the dreary day outside, the memories from previous night hit him like a ton of bricks. Every detail. He cursed to himself and willed it out of his brain, focusing instead on the fact that his towel had disappeared, the one he'd left on his hair when he'd climbed into bed. In fact, he didn't remember grabbing the blanket that was now draped over him either, and he recognized it as being one of Freddie’s. His bleary eyes landed on a yellow smudge on the back of the door that must've been his towel hanging on a hook, and he noticed that the door was cracked open about six inches, light from the living room flooding in and mixing with the daylight. Someone had been in to care for him. 

Roger momentarily snuggled into the warm throw blanket that had been draped over him and he inhaled the comforting scent of his best friend that came from it. He wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to face him after last night, as he knew Freddie would want to talk about it. The singer had rescued him after all, so didn’t he deserve to know the details?   
The drummer sat up slowly feeling an aching in his muscles and his head screamed at him as he shifted to get up to go to the loo. With a glance at the clock he realized it was past noon and he'd been sleeping for over twelve hours. He slowly slid out of bed, hissing as his sore feet made contact with the floor. The pressure of his weight shifting onto the soles made him wince as he hobbled toward the bathroom, his head swimming with the killer hangover he knew he deserved along with whatever possible concussion he may have gotten (he could tell he had one as his vision was slightly warped and he struggled to find proper balance as he stood at the toilet). He figured maybe some coffee might do his head some good.

After Roger brushed his teeth thoroughly and flossed (he was disgusted he hadn’t the night before, his 18 months spent in dental school be damned) he felt a tad bit better and was beginning to get his bearings. He then shuffled out to the kitchen, trying desperately to stay quiet and unnoticed. He was honestly surprised no one else was awake yet. Roger hobbled past Freddie’s open bedroom door to see John sprawled out on the singer’s bed, mouth hanging open in his deep slumber with one of the cats curled around the top of his head. That was odd, Freddie rarely gave up his bed. He found his answer when he approached the kitchen and could see out into the living room. Freddie had somehow fallen asleep in the armchair and his head was drooping at an uncomfortable looking angle. That was gonna be sore. Brian was stretched out on the couch, his head on one armrest and his feet overflowing atop the other. Both men were snoring softly and Roger thanked his lucky stars that everyone had decided to sleep in this morning. He figured they'd both fallen asleep before John and that must've been how he ended up with the bed. 

The grumpy blond trudged over to the coffee machine and prepared it with water and a fresh filter of coffee grinds. The clean scent sent an almost excited shiver down his spine and brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. Good. He had something to enjoy. He turned the machine on before shakily making his way to the breakfast bar to perch his sore body on one of the cheap, old barstools that lined the counter. Roger stared into space, his mind's normal racing of thoughts and ideas which usually consumed him were all gone, instead replaced by memories of the fearful events the night before and a whirlwind of emotions to complement. He felt sick to his stomach as images crept and picked at the edges of his mind and he physically flinched, trying desperately to keep them away. It wasn’t just last night’s events that plagued his thoughts, but they had triggered a lifetime of unpleasant memories to resurface as well.  
A life time of being harassed for his good albeit babyish and feminine looks, a childhood of growing up the smallest in the pack: the “titch” boy as his old bandmates back home had lovingly nicknamed him at one point, years of being an easy target for older bullies. Always the fuck-up to his parents. Always the “blond” of any group he was part of, literally and figuratively, his deep intellect disregarded. Roger felt completely and utterly worthless, and he just couldn’t understand why things like this happened to him. He, who cared so deeply for others was oftentimes the scapegoat, the punching bag, the one who could be used up and tossed away. 

His thoughts were broken by the chugging and hissing of the coffee machine, and he mentally cursed himself for forgetting about the absolute racket it produced. Surely it would wake one or all of the boys, and Roger sighed to himself in defeat and rested his head on his folded arms on the counter. He simply wasn't ready to talk about the night before but knew he'd never get out of it. 

As expected, Freddie and Brian both stirred out in the living room, groaning and yawning as they stretched out their bodies, stiff from the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. "Roger?" Freddie cooed as a yawn escaped his mouth, masking his concerned tone. 

"In-- in here, Fred!" The drummer called, sitting up and trying and failing to not sound as shitty as he felt, his voice a mere croak. "Making some coffee. Would you like any?"

Freddie approached the kitchen and came around to stand on the other side of the breakfast bar. "Ah, yes please, dear, thank you." His eyes swept over Roger as though he were just looking for something to fuss over and he furrowed his brows, clearly unhappy with what he saw. “Looking a bit rough there, Rog.” 

“Really?” Roger responded, raising his eyebrows in attempt to feign disinterest. “Haven’t looked in the mirror.” He wanted so desperately to act like he didn’t care. It was just another bar fight, and that was all, he didn’t want Freddie to see that he was affected by it. 

“Your face—“ but Freddie was cut off by Brian making his way into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes dramatically as he walked to the cabinet to pick out a coffee mug.

Once the machine was done the guitarist went ahead and poured three mugs and set the sugar jar on the counter for his bandmates. He seemed as though he was still half asleep, not registering the palpable tension in the air as he went about the morning motions. He almost seemed not to remember why he was in his bandmates’ flat to begin with, that was until he noticed Roger’s face.  
It wasn’t just the light purple shadowing that decorated the blonde’s cheekbones, the split in his bottom lip, or the gash above his eyebrow. It wasn’t even the thin red line that decorated the drummer’s throat. It was the look in his eyes, a look Brian had only ever seen one other time way back in the early days when he’d woken the drummer from a night terror he’d been having in their van. It was a look of upmost despair, brokenness, and turmoil. There was none of the boy’s usual fiery personality behind those sad eyes and the thought of that absolutely shattered Brian’s heart.

“Oh, Rog…” Brian breathed, his actions stilled as he gazed at his damaged friend. “What ever did they do to you?”

Roger’s steely poker face crumpled and he looked down at his lap, desperately trying to hold in the tears that were welling in his eyes. “I don’t… want to talk about it, Brimi.”

“Darling,” Freddie sighed, “we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what happened. All I saw was you pinned against a wall with a knife—“ 

“Stop it, Fred!” Roger squawked, his voice cracking in a level of distress that was rare for him. His big, blue eyes were wide as saucers as his whole body visibly tensed. 

“Rog, hey, relax.” Brian reached out over the counter and rested his hand on Roger’s shoulder, frowning as the blond flinched at his touch. “You’re okay. We need to talk about this, alright? We don’t have to now but the sooner we do the sooner we can put it behind us, yeah?” 

Roger nodded but squeezed his eyes shut. He took several breaths before he let his body relax and let his eyes flutter back open. “Okay. We can talk. You’re gonna find out one way or other anyway.” With his flippant, uncaring attitude returning he slid off his barstool and padded toward the living room, clutching his warm coffee mug like a lifeline. “Someone go wake John before I change my mind.”

Freddie and Brian shared a startled look before Freddie took off down the hall to do as the blond ordered and Brian poured a fourth cup of coffee, preparing it as the young bassist liked. The guitarist was the first to join Roger in the living room, returning to his couch as the blond stole Freddie’s armchair, and they waited together in tense silence as Freddie led a bleary-eyed John down the hallway. 

“Very well,” Roger began with a heavy sigh as John plopped down onto the couch beside Brian while Freddie perched on a cushion that was lying discarded by the coffee table. Three large, curious pairs of eyes were now glued on the drummer who normally soaked up attention but couldn’t stand it in this situation. All he wanted was to go back to bed.   
The boys were patient as Roger squirmed in his seat, his wide, blue eyes locked on his coffee mug instead of those of his friends as he tried desperately to gather his words. “I’ll give you the whole story I guess. Um. I’m sure Fred gave you his side and there's not too much more I guess. These couple of blokes accidentally started hitting on me at the bar, I was facing away from them so they didn’t realize— well you know when I turned around they weren’t expecting a man. They didn’t take too kindly to it and threw a few slurs, ya know. Nothing that hasn’t happened before. They were really pissed off about it but I wasn’t up for a fight and Fred and I just walked away for once. Over and done, no big deal.” he was trying so hard to be nonchalant, trying to convince even himself that it wasn't a big deal.

“But that’s not all?” Brian asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Does it look like that was all, Brian?” The blond’s voice was scathing as his eyes narrowed, and it was a biting tone Brian rarely got from the drummer unless he’d royally pissed him off. 

"Right. Sorry."

Roger leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowed at Brian in annoyance, no longer feeling quite as self conscious now that he had the opportunity to be snarky. He had decided it wouldn’t be so bad to talk about it, he just didn’t know how to put how he felt into words without scaring his friends. 

 

It had been several drinks since Roger had last relieved himself and he’d broken the proverbial seal hours ago, so with a quick tap on his best mate’s shoulder the lithe drummer took off through the thick crowd of the night club they had ended up in. He was grateful for his slight build as he navigated and weaved through the bodies, some swaying and dancing drunkenly while others just simply just stood in the way.   
He hated that the bathrooms were so far off the barroom, and for a moment his substance-muddled brain considered just pissing on the wall of the ridiculous hallway in protest. The decent citizen in him convinced him to trudge the extra 5 meters or so to the mens room. 

Grumbling to himself he headed straight for the urinals and started to make quick business of relieving himself. He was vaguely aware of others being present in the bathroom, one of stalls was occupied and another person was making use of a mirror that hung over the sinks.   
Nearly finished, he heard someone exit one of the stalls adjacent to him. “Oi, what do ya know, it does have a dick!” the person exclaimed theatrically, followed by the snickers of the other who’d been at the sinks. Roger sighed in annoyance, he was getting really sick of this shit. 

“Oh, fuck off.” In one swift movement he zipped his jeans and whirled around, his temper making its grand return now that he was getting fed up, but he stopped, surprised to find they were the men who had been hitting on him earlier. In this crowded club they were the ones he ran into? Just his luck. 

In the brighter lighting of the bathroom Roger could actually get a look at them. The taller one was quite burly and had a dark, Beatles-like bowl cut that he certainly couldn't pull off, along with a mustache that almost looked fake. The shorter man was still about an inch taller than Roger and had a shade of fiery red hair, his lips curled into a nearly demonic smile that curved around the spatter of freckles that dusted his nose and cheeks.

The drummer rolled his eyes, seeing even through his growing rage and discomfort that he was outsized and outnumbered, so he’d just have to let it go. He pushed past the men and through the door, but tensed when he didn't hear the door thump closed after him. Something was about to go wrong, he could feel it, and it had nothing to do with the copious amounts of illicit substances coursing through his veins. He was stopped by a rough hand on his shoulder, and turned to find the men smiling down on him like the cats who got the cream. 

“What are you playing at?” Roger hissed, shooting them with a sharp glare as a shiver of fear shot down his spine. "I am straight and I am man, I promise, I'll stay out of your way. Just let me alone, won't you?" He went to turn back toward the bar but was stopped once more when he noticed the glint of something shiny in one of their hands. Blue eyes went wider than saucers as they travelled back up to meet the attacker's dark ones and Roger felt the icy fingers of fear grab him and freeze him to the spot. 

"I think your paki boyfriend can wait, pretty boy." 

Roger didn't have time to think before the taller man decked him in the temple and he saw stars as the shorter man kneed him in the stomach. He fell to his knees with a desperate cry, clutching his abdomen and scrambled on all fours toward the bar. Before he could go far he was caught by a foot to his ribcage and felt a sickening crack, then was scooped up by his shirt collar. He found himself in a choke hold with another sharp blow to his eye, and the blade of the pocket knife he'd seen moments ago then pressed to his throat as the red head who held him captive backed them into the brick wall at the end of the hallway. He then pushed the drummer down onto his backside and knelt behind him, keeping the knife’s position steadfast. There wasn't any light other than the random flashes streaming down several meters from the bar, and it was just the three of them, isolated from the chaotic partying going on just out of reach. 

Roger let out a small whimper and felt the blade tighten against his throat in response. “Scream and you’re dead, faggot” hissed the voice behind him in his ear as a stinging sensation developed on his skin under the blade. The larger man stepped toward him and through his now blotchy vision the terrified blond watched as the man knelt before them and reached out to caress his cheek before grabbing his jaw aggressively, forcibly turning Roger’s head so that he had to look into the man’s small, beady eyes. 

Roger’s heart pounded almost painfully hard as the man’s eyes raked over him, and a sickening churning began in the drummer’s stomach as his head spun. His survival instincts went into overdrive as he fought every knee jerk reaction to struggle out of the arms of his attackers and make a break for it, because he knew one wrong move and his life could very well end right there in that corridor. One didn’t have to have Roger’s background in medicine to know that slitting one’s throat in the right place was almost certainly a death sentence. So, he forced himself to stay still though his body screamed to move. 

“Your kind is not welcome here,” the attacker spat, getting right up in Roger’s face, grip too tight on his jaw. They were almost nose to nose. “And I wanna know why you think you are.” A finger pressed harshly into the drummer’s chest, pushing him flush against the man holding him hostage and his heart dropped into his stomach as he felt the unmistakable bulge pressed into his back. What kind of sick joke was this?

Roger was scared to make a sound, but it was a slap across the face with a sharp “answer me!” that made him find his voice once more, his mind spiraling down into a dark place it rarely occupied, recalling when he’d been handled like this before and reminding him of how he needed to act. “I— I don’t know!” he cried, panicking, his flight survival response taking over judgement for him, but he immediately wanted to kick himself for answering that way. That was a weak answer, one to placate his attacker. It was the type of answer that was so uncharacteristic for him that he felt like it was a different person speaking through him, a person he hadn’t been in years.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been held back there in the dark corridor, victim of derogatory insults and the occasional hard slap to the face. Rationally he knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it had felt like hours before Freddie showed up concerned and in search of his friend. Any and all comprehension was gone from the drummer as the frontman pulled the attackers away, fending them off with fighting skills he’d acquired in his youth. The moment the blade left his skin Roger curled into a ball in a last ditch effort to protect himself. 

He honestly didn’t remember much of how Freddie had gotten him home. The last he remembered until arriving back to the flat was Freddie hurrying over to him and scooping him up to his feet. 

“Wow.” Brian whispered once the drummer finished his story, his eyes wide and worried. 

“My God,” John breathed, looking away and biting his lip. He looked like he would be sick.

Freddie got to his feet, eyes locked on his best friend’s face. “Come on, Rog,” he sighed. “We need to get a look at you. John checked on you last night and said you were in bad shape.”

Roger’s eyes travelled to the bassist, both curiosity and understanding dawning on him. He and John were quite close, but of all the three bandmates he’d guess to check to see if he was physically okay, he wouldn’t have guessed it to be him. While the bassist was generally much more rational than the other two he was also quite shy and the least likely to break away from the group. The drummer was surprised and appreciative to realize that it had been John to tuck him in and take his towel away. After getting up with up with a stiff groan to follow Freddie, he passed John with a pat on the shoulder and a whispered “thanks, mate.”

Everyone followed Freddie to the cramped hall bathroom where the singer gestured for Rog to sit on the toilet lid and started to rummage through the vanity cabinet for first aid materials. “Bri, darling, I think I’ll have you take it from here,” Freddie sighed as he pulled out a box of bandages and antibiotic ointment and realizing he was in over his head. One look at the nasty gash on his friend’s forehead had him chickening out.

“Alright,” Brian shouldered passed John through the doorway and took the items from Freddie’s hands and set them on the edge of the sink. The guitarist then opened up the towel cabinet and found a washrag. He wet it with warm water before sitting on the side of the bathtub and gently dabbing the rag over Roger’s cut. “Probably should have gotten stitches, Rog. What the hell did they hit you with?”

“He had a ring,” Roger hissed as the rag stung his wound.

Brian finished cleaning the gash and used his finger to spread the ointment over it, saying “I know you’re not diseased, Rog, and neither am I” as Roger the ex-med school student opened his mouth to protest. Brian then picked out a large, square bandage to gently place over top of the neatly cleaned wound. He passed over the badly split lip, knowing there wasn’t much he could do about it, and moved on to the thin cut on the drummer’s throat, proceeding to repeat the process on that wound. 

Cleaning the head wound hadn’t bothered Roger much at all but he winced and recoiled away from his friend’s hands as Brian reached for his throat. A stressed whine escaped the younger man’s lips as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard not to shove Brian away. It wasn’t that it hurt, though it did, but having someone’s hands at his throat so soon after the prior night’s events had Roger’s nerves frayed. At his response the other three boys winced as well, all three of their hearts shattering as they immediately understood why he acted that way.

After being patched up Roger looked much less frightening though his bruised cheek and split lip couldn’t be helped. It was then that Freddie stepped forward again and grasped the hem of the drummer’s shirt. 

“Arms.” The singer ordered.

“Freddie, what the—“ but Roger was forced to comply when Freddie began to pull Roger’s shirt up and off against his protests and groans of soreness. 

Gasps filled the tiny bathroom as the boys saw the damage revealed beneath, and Roger looked down, surprised even himself at the dark purple, blue, and red splotches that had developed over his ribs and abdomen. Tears pricked at his eyes that had nothing to do with the pain as he laid a hand over his stomach, feeling the heat radiating from the bruising there that contrasted sharply with his pale skin. “Bloody hell” he breathed, taking in the ghastly sight of his own skin.

“They really did a number on you, Rog.” Deaky shuffled nervously in the doorway as he spoke, “I was worried about your ribs last night, your breathing wasn’t great, so I stayed up and listened to you until I could convince myself you weren’t going to die...” he trailed off with an awkward chuckle, casting his eyes to the floor in embarrassment as he grew quiet. “Seeing you like that really scared me.”

“Scared all of us, mate.” Brian acknowledged as he washed his hands clean of the ointment.

“Maybe we should take you somewhere to get your ribs looked at, love. They look awful.” Freddie made a motion as if he were going to touch Rogers side, but his outreached hand dropped to his side. “What if they’re broken?”

“There’s not much to do for broken ribs. I’m fine, Fred.” The drummer sighed, knowing his attempts at soothing the older man would be futile. “I think I would know, I mean I did spend nearly two years dissecting cadavers in med school.” His bandmates expressed groans of disgust and disturbance at this unpleasant reminder. 

Freddie shook his head, doing his best to ignore the morbid comment. “I know, love, but might I remind you you’re not a doctor and it might be best to have a professional take a look just in case.”

“Freddie, I know you’re worried and you’re trying to help but kindly, fuck off. I. Am. Fine.” the drummer spat through gritted teeth. “If it’ll make you feel better we can wrap ‘em up. Might help the soreness anyway,” he continued in resignation.

Brian began sifting through the contents of the vanity cabinet once more, this time for an elastic bandage as Freddie nodded his approval. “We’ll get you some aspirin too, doll.” the singer shuffled out of the bathroom to leave Brian to finish treating the blond and went in search of the medicine he’d promised. 

Roger winced as he raised his arms a bit for Brian to examine his ribs. The guitarist poked at them unceremoniously, causing gasps of pain to escape the drummer’s lips, but no protest was made, as he could feel some of them moving far too much at the touch and knew he needed to let Brian look. He’d known they were broken just by the way they rattled when he breathed, but he didn’t know how many or how badly. Prior medical knowledge screamed in the back of his mind that one could puncture a lung, but the anxiety induced from thinking of retelling his story to a stranger kept him from going to a professional.   
The stubborn drummer internally talked himself down from his anxiety to distract himself as Brian continued his reconnaissance: if he had a punctured lung he wouldn’t be able to fill his lungs with air, which he could do albeit extremely painful. Broken ribs hurt like a bitch because the moved with each breath, but when Roger pushed past the pain he was able to breathe, and that was all that mattered in the grand scheme of things. Right?

Another thought occurred to Roger as his panic renewed. Another possible concern: what if he had internal hemorrhaging? Nah, he thought. His belly would be stiff and he’d feel much weaker from blood loss. Plus the amount of time that had passed since the attack with no noticed symptoms of a hemorrhage was promising. He figured he was pretty much in the clear for that, so he moved on to the next concern. 

One thing Roger knew for sure was that he had a concussion. He’d been hit quite hard several times and he could tell the pounding headache wasn’t just his usual dehydration headache he got from a normal hangover. 

“Deaky,” the drummer began hesitantly, trying to make his voice sound chipper as he addressed the bassist who loitered in the doorway, observing. “I need you to check me for concussion while Brian’s doing his bit.”

“Uh, I don’t know how, Rog,” Deaky pointed out in surprise. “I haven’t taken first aid like Brian.”

“It’s easy, I’ll talk you through it. You won’t be able to definitively tell or anything, I don’t think, but I just want to make sure I’m not bleeding out up there.” He tapped his head with his index finger, smirking slightly in attempt to relieve the anxious tension in the air.

Johns face paled in horror as his eyes fixed on Roger’s head as though he were trying to see through his skull into his brain. 

“Come off it, John I’m kidding!” Roger grumbled impatiently. “Never mind, you don’t have to check. I feel well enough so I’m sure it’s not so bad.” What the drummer didn’t say was that his already shoddy vision had been swimming in and out of focus since he woke up and every sound stabbed into his skull like a knife. He figured he could just blame it all on the hangover, his body had been through more chemical and physical abuse in the last 36 hours than most go through in a life time, so all he needed was some rest and self care and he’d be fine. 

Brian was gentle as he wrapped the elastic bandage around where he could feel his friend’s broken ribs. As Roger hissed in pain trying to hide his discomfort, Brian winced, nearly feeling it himself as his heart went out to Roger. No matter how much he disagreed with some of the blond’s choices of how he spent his free time and thought he was constantly putting himself in danger, no one deserved to be ambushed the way Roger had been. No one went out to have a good time thinking they would be brutally attacked. Sure, Roger made some poor choices sometimes, but he certainly wasn’t dumb and none of this was his fault, which is what truly broke Brian’s heart over the situation. He simply couldn’t rationalize or make sense of why anyone would have hurt his friend for no reason. 

“Alright, Rog?” Brian asked as he secured the bandage and placed a hand on his friend’s arms, signaling that he could relax.

Roger winced as he took an experimental breath. “I guess so, yeah. Thanks, Bri.”

“Don’t mention it.” The lanky guitarist then got to his feet and offered a hand to the drummer, a gentle, sympathetic smile on his face. “What do you say we find where Fred’s at with that aspirin, yeah?”


End file.
